Spare the Child
by Sunny33
Summary: Dean patted his back in an attempt to console...the child. Because that's what Sam had become. Mid Season 4. My version of a de-aged Sam and Angsted Dean...and a pinch of H/C to taste. Rated T for sweary words.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, guys. I know this has been done before, but I humbly offer my version of a brother 'de aged'. No offence intended to anyone as I realise there are some touchy elements to this fic. See what you think. **

**Spare the Child**

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A cool breeze crossed his brow. A gentle caress of fresh air to enjoy in the musty, staleness of the motel room. With a stretch, Dean breathed it in. He turned towards the source and opened his eyes.

The door was open.

He turned his head around to see Sam's bed empty. Fuck.

Leaping up, he almost bunny hopped towards the door, one foot jamming inside his jeans as he strained to look outside.

He stood open mouthed. Heart racing. The car park was deserted.

"Sam!" he barked, the quiet solitude of the early morning disturbed by his voice.

He checked the Impala. Nothing.

He jogged around towards the back of the block. Nothing.

This Motel had definitely seen better days. The sign in book clearly showed that the brothers were the only guests to stay there that week. Times were hard in this part of the world.

The flickering 'C' of the Reception sign caught his attention and he walked purposefully towards it. He'd be there, he told himself. He'd be in reception annoying Uncle Fester. Hope was a wonderful thing.

Reception was empty.

Behind the counter a small TV perched on a kitchen chair flickered 'Good Morning America' on it's dusty screen – the sound turned down to it's lowest. Dean batted the bell, two, three times in irritation, knowing full well there was no one there to hear it.

Suddenly, he heard laughter. Light, playful laughter, coming from the reception room back door. He walked through the small living space towards the screen door. The laughter increasing in sound.

It squealed as he pushed the door open – and he stood taking in the scene before him.

Sam wearing shorts. Nothing else.

Sitting in the dirt of a barren back yard. A string dangling from his left hand. A fat ginger cat jumping for it. Every time the cat lunged – Sam chuckled at the sight.

Watching him, with a smile, much like an adoring relative, was the Motel manager, fondly nick named, Uncle Fester.

"You lookin' for someone, son?" he drawled. Despite the bazaar scene before him, this old timer seemed as relaxed and as happy as a man starting a normal day.

"Uh...yeah," Dean faltered for a quick fire explanation. He let the screen door go and it snapped into the frame noisily, distracting Sam from his game.

"Dean!" he squealed smiling brighter than the morning sun at his brother. "Look at Boxer...see him dance!"

Dean flicked a glance at the old man.

"Yeah.... I can see him." Dean returned, unable to match Sam's enthusiasm.

"Hope you don't mind... " Uncle Fester pointed towards Sam. "Had to put a pair of shorts on him. If ol' Mrs Wannamaker next door had seen him runnin' around here in his birthday suit, she'd take a coronary right there on her porch." He sniggered into the coffee he was nursing.

"What?" Dean grimaced. Uncle Fester turned in his chair to face him.

"Tell me, Mr McGillicuddy. How old is Sam?"

"He's 26." Dean shot back. Uncle Fester's smile faded and he shook his head slowly.

"Well, now," he muttered, looking back at Sam on the dirt ground. "Ain't that a sin."

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but abruptly realised...he didn't know what to say.

"He reminds me of my niece, Marylinn. Such a lovin' child - but not enough sense in her pretty head to work a damn toaster. An accident at birth, they said. Not enough oxygen to the brain...or somethin'," he said wistfully. He took a slurp at his coffee before asking, "Is that what happened to Sam?"

Dean's mind worked overtime. The cat jumped and Sam giggled.

"No...he's not...he's just...he gets like that when he's drunk." Dean walked across the yard towards Sam and pulled on his free arm.

"C'mon, Sam, let's go."

The old man moved to get up from his chair. "Hey, son...I didn't mean nothing. I thought he was...he acted like he was..." he wiped at the back of his neck like an embarrassed child.

"Look, it's alright. I'm just sorry he interrupted you this morning. " Sam let himself be lead by Dean, but his eyes stayed on the ginger cat. "We'll get out of your way now. And thanks for the...pants," he added, a firm hand on Sam's bare back as he opened the screen door and stepped into the old man's living space.

Dean slammed their own room door behind them.

Sam stood in the middle of the floor, one foot standing on the other, pinched features, eyebrows knitted together. The image of worry and guilt. Dean considered him for a beat. The whole scene was a throw back to years gone by. When Sam was four, and John had slammed the room door with just the same amount of anger Dean now possessed. The memory bit hard and he struggled to compose himself.

"Sam," he kept his voice firm. "You can't be running off like that. Hell, anything could have happened, and I would never have known."

Sam bit his lip. Eyes drawn towards Dean's feet. It was only then that Dean noticed Sam's own shorts lying on the floor. The ones he had discarded in his quest for freedom.

"And you can't be taking your pants off either," he added. "You're...you're a big boy now...and big boys don't go outside in the scud." Well, there was a sentence he'd never thought he'd ever say.

Sam scowled. Then crossed his arms. Then he crawled onto his bed and curled himself up into a ball amongst the covers, the dirt from his bare feet marking the sheets.

Dean looked up at the ceiling and silently cursed the day he'd run into that skank witch at the gas station.

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She had a diamond smile. Bright and pure. And the smoothest skin.

But then sixteen year olds usually did. Dean had hardly noticed her. In his mind, he chewed over their latest hunt which was still not resolved after two nights and three days solid toil. He had a full bladder to empty and two rumbling stomachs to feed. Heck, Miss America could have been standing behind the till in a star spangled bikini and he wouldn't have blinked twice at her.

But Arla Hamilton had seen Dean Winchester. And she liked what she saw.

"So, you boys on a road trip?" she'd chirped as she'd sashayed her way towards the sales counter.

"Uh...yeah." Dean glanced out at Sam still sleeping in the Impala.

"Where you headed?"

It was only then that Dean had really looked at her. She flashed a smile and flicked her hair behind her shoulder.

"Oh...nowhere exciting," he looked down at the items he'd bought, hoping she'd just ring them through the till and he'd be gone. Instead, she leaned across the counter, her fulsome cleavage now in full view.

"You sure you got all you need, now?" Her softest voice.

"Yup." He'd returned curtly.

She didn't move.

"Your buddy's takin' a nap just now," she coo-ed. "He wouldn't miss you if you were...held up doin' somethin' else." She raised an eyebrow and watched him intently.

Dean nodded, immediately understanding the suggestion. Immediately assessing her situation. A bored teenager, on the edge of adulthood, stuck in a dustbowl town with a handful of neighbours that she'd probably grown up with. Nothing good ever happened in her sad little life. And nothing good ever would.

"Look, sweetheart," Dean had snorted. "Just ring through my stuff would you? I'm sure there's a showing of High School Musical on somewhere and you're missing it."

Her smile had suddenly disappeared and she'd stood up to her full height. Dead eyes regarded him then, enough to make him avert his gaze towards the items he now pushed towards her.

"I ain't no child," she said, crossing her arms.

"You ain't no sales assistant either."

Her eyes flashed with anger.

"You know, you've got a smart mouth."

Dean shook his head with a chuckle and pulled a few notes from his back pocket. He slapped them on the counter and pulled the items towards him.

"Are you laughing at me, Mister?"

"No, ma'am," he turned his back towards her.

"It ain't polite to be laughing at young folks, you know," she raised her voice as he walked away. He became aware of her following him towards the door.

"You think you got it good being all grown up, do ya?" she continued. Dean walked around the Impala, opened the door and got in. Arla watched him sullenly...

...and then her eyes rested on his sleeping companion.

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He rolled his jeans up into a ball and stuffed them into the edge of the hold-all. Then he rubbed his chin and considered his brother's sleeping form on the other bed. Still curled into the same petulant ball he'd made when he'd flounced onto the bed earlier – he'd fallen into a deep sleep, as only a four year old could.

A four year old.

That's what Dean had guessed at for Sam's 'new' age. He'd fallen asleep as a hard-assed, 26 year old demon hunter, with the weight of the world on his shoulders and a pledge to kill an uber demon named Lillith, and had woken up an hour later with the mental age of a pre- schooler.

Dean had been angry at first.

Thought he'd been drinking. Or worse, that he'd taken something. But Sam was rarely a happy drunk. He tended more towards the morose side of his ego. And drugs were never really his thing. Not enough control and never enough money. Or so he'd said in the past.

And then, while driving through some hick mid western town, Sam decided he wanted some candy...like now. And Dean had stopped the car, and watched with a mixture of fascination and abject horror as Sam had tried to cross the Main Street to get to the store. The man had lost all his sense of direction, all his sense of spacial acuity, and danger. Tyres had screeched and horns had honked enough to make Sam flinch and cower on his knees at the side of the road...all thoughts of candy suddenly erased from his mind.

By the time Dean had reached him, he was all snots and tears. He'd reached out for Dean and hugged him tight around his waist like a child. Shoppers nearby had stopped walking to stare at the touching scene. Dean had patted his back in a half-hearted attempt to console...the child. Because that's what Sam had become.

"Sam." Dean said softly. He dumped the shirt and jeans onto the end of Sam's bed and waited for him to wake up.

"Sam, come on! Time to get up." A firmer tone.

Sam drew his legs up further and covered his ears with a pillow.

"Time to get dressed. Jump too it, dude."

"Where we going?" A muffled voice from behind the pillow.

"Back to Carterville Gas Station," Dean ground out.

"Don' wanna."

"Me neither. Now can you get your clothes on...please?"

With a sigh, Sam moved to sit himself up. Hair askew and crease marks down his face. He rubbed his eyes and sat dishevelled on the edge of the bed. Dean picked up the t shirt and was about to hand it to Sam, when he stood up, and lifted his arms up and waited.

Dean frowned at his antics before the realisation hit him.

As tall and as capable as he looked, Sam wasn't about to dress himself. Because when Sam was four, someone else usually did it for him. Or started him off, at the very least.

With a laboured sigh, Dean rolled up the t shirt and obediently pulled it over Sam's tousled head. Sam duly struggled to find the arm holes, just like he did when he was four – and patiently waited for Dean to open the legs of his clean shorts before he stepped into them. In the bathroom he knew how to brush his teeth, and wash behind his neck, and thankfully had accepted Dean's muffled acknowledgement of the bristles on his chin. Yes, big boys can have hair on their faces. No, he could not use the razor to take it off. Yes, Dean would help him shave it off later. Hopefully never.

Dean waited for Sam to pull his long legs into the Impala and offered the notebook and pencil as a poor substitute for a Gameboy if ever there was one. A faint smile tugged at Sam's mouth and he immediately focussed on scribbling out an outline of a fat cat. That should keep him going for at least ten minutes, Dean told himself. With a sigh, he closed the door and paced out the plan in his head.

He'd catch that horny bitch and find out what stupid hex she'd placed on his brother. And then he'd make her change it back. Life with a four year old trailing behind him just wasn't going to cut it in a hunter's world, and unlike John, Dean didn't have a handy eight year old heir to take the strain when he had a job to finish. This Sam couldn't watch his back. This Sam couldn't hustle pool, discuss a case or provide the necessary back up in a tight spot. This Sam couldn't listen to a theory. Couldn't even talk, let alone concentrate on what Dean was telling him.

In the car, Dean turned on the radio and glanced over at his brother . Engrossed in his task – he raised his face and flashed an endearing grin at Dean, the innocence and honesty of it nearly broke his heart. He couldn't remember the last time his brother had smiled at him like that. It was like a gift.

"Dude. I can't wait to tell you all about this one," he said quietly.

But Sam wasn't even listening. Instead he hummed along with the tune of an old song that provided their back ground noise.

Dean put the car in gear and started thinking about the route to the gas station only a hundred miles back along from where they came.

"Oooh!" Sam pointed as the car swung around the empty car park. "See the roof, Dean."

"Yeah, I see the roof."

Sam dropped his pad and pencil and inhaled in growing excitement, his finger jabbing at the window.

"Dean, look at Boxer's roof...Boxer's roof, Dean."

"What?" he answered, his head swinging round to where Sam was pointing. He jammed on the brakes at the sight, the jolt propelling them both forward slightly.

"Need a nee-naw." Sam exclaimed.

And he was right. From Uncle Fester's roof, thick black smoke trailed into the clear blue sky, flames already licking at the blackened window.

And no sign of the kindly old man anywhere...

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

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Black.

Blacker than black.

In fact, he couldn't even tell if his eyes were open or not.

And noise. The roar of the blaze at the back of the living space assaulted his ears despite his jacket over his head. He pushed forward with his feet. The old man would be on the floor by now.

The heat coursing up his nostrils and invading his lungs scorched him.

No air.

He sank to his knees, one hand grasping his jacket the other outstretched towards the fire. Random sparks stung him as they settled on his shirt and burnt through to his t shirt. It hurt too much to breath. He pulled in one last breath – an inhalation of hot smoke and dust and stumbled forward onto something soft.

It had weight to it. It was him...or someone.

Dean grasped a hand full of shirt and pulled him back. A dead weight. He exhaled and sucked in more dirt and smoke from the airless room. His lungs felt on fire, his head about to explode with the pressure of trying to hold his breath. But he could do this.

Back the way he'd come in.

It wasn't far.

He could do it.

Five steps at most.

He could do it.

If he could just get some air...he could do it.

Air... just a breath of air...

"What's your name, sir? "

"Sam ..Sam Winchester."

"Your address?"

Sam frowned. His face awash with tears and soot. His right sleeve a convenient hanky, swiping at his nose. He choked back a sob, which made the Fire Fighter look up from his note book.

"Um...we stay here..." Sam mumbled, looking past the man towards his brother.

The Fireman took a moment to measure this man. He wrung his hands. He strained to see his brother. A veritable man mountain and yet he was crying like a girl. When the fire truck swung into the car park, he was just getting out of the Impala, but he didn't want to leave it. Something wasn't quite right.

"Can I see Dean now...can I?" he pleaded pushing forward again.

The Fireman swung his head back towards the two men lying on the ground – two Firemen working on only one. The other was never getting up again. Inside the cramped little apartment, the fire hissed at the diligent spray of water being directed at it as other fire fighters put out the blaze. He reached out a hand towards Sam's chest, holding him back. The contact only emphasising the rapid heart beat this kid was kicking out.

"Hey, hey, Sam. " He stepped right into Sam's line of sight. " Listen to me...how old are you?"

Sam swallowed hard.

"I'm a big boy. Dean says...I'm a big boy now."

A sudden realisation hit the fire fighter then and he quickly pulled Sam around to look at him.

"Okay, okay, now look at me...I'm Vinnie and I'll tell you exactly what's happening and I promise you, that you will always be able to see your brother, okay?"

Sam nodded at him, a fresh spill of tears falling down his face.

"But, right now, we're trying to get him to breathe a little better than he is...and that's why Tom and Marcus over there are working on him."

Sam's concentration was already slipping and Vinnie clutched his shoulder for a beat, eager to keep him out of the way. He dug out his mobile phone. This kid wasn't going to be able to tell them anything. They were travelling somewhere obviously. Only God only knew where and if the brother didn't wake up there was a chance that no one would ever know. Social services would have to deal with this case once the ambulance came, and he could already hear the siren's wail in the distance.

Air...forcing it's way up his nostrils.

Cool and comforting.

But the pressure on his nose and chin was an irritation. So were the stones digging into his back.

The weight on his face lessened and a shadow over him allowed him to open his eyes. Two huge men loomed over him.

"He's conscious," Tom said. Marcus poured water into his hand and swiped it over Dean's face and lips, causing him to cough a spluttered reply.

"Just take it easy, man," Tom pressed Dean's shoulder down. He blinked up at them. He recognised their uniforms.

The fire.

Uncle Fester.

Sam.

"What happened?" he wheezed.

"There was a fire. You tried to save the old man," the first one said. "Was he a relative of yours?"

Dean shook his head.

Both men maintained their gaze. "He didn't make it."

Dean nodded.

"Where's Sam?"

Marcus jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "He's right here," he said cheerfully. "A drive-by called us out here...you were already outside when you passed out. You're a lucky guy."

Tom slung an arm under Dean and helped him to sit up, pushing a bottle of water into his hand. His view from the ground suddenly expanded, and he could see an older fireman with an arm across Sam's back. They seemed deep in conversation. Sam's head bowed, listening, nodding. Safe.

He wiped a grimy hand across his face – his mouth thick with dust and grit. Tiny black holes dotted his shirt and the hair on his forearms was gone. Water gushed down the gutters and across the car park from the now derelict living space, the reception casting a blackened and abandoned feel already.

He remembered ordering Sam to stay in the car. Remembered taking off his jacket as he ran towards the door, the smoke already belching from it. Remembered Sam's excited squeal at the sight of the fire. He wasn't squealing now.

"He's fine. A bit freaked out, but fine," Marcus assured him. Dean nodded and moved to get up, his gaze on his little brother.

As soon as Sam saw him, he lowered his head and wiped at his face. Dean licked his lips and approached him. Vinnie offered a polite smile and moved away as Dean reached for his brother's shoulder.

"You okay?" he looked up into Sam's face. He watched Sam's lip tremble and a tear streak down a well travelled path to his chin.

"It was scary...I was scared," he bit back a sob while trying to speak. Dean cupped a hand behind his neck and rubbed some comfort into him.

"Me too," Dean returned softly. His face clouded over at the potential for disaster his actions could have caused. If he hadn't made it outside, Sam would've been left alone, with no hope of getting back to Carterville. A child trapped inside a grown up body for what...the next fifteen years?

"I...I stayed in the car, like you said."

"I know you did."

Dean looked back at the well meaning smiles the firemen gave him, their sympathy almost like an insult to him.

"Come on, let's go."

Vinnie suddenly approached them.

"Hey, you might wanna get checked out by the medics here," he said cautiously.

"No, really, I feel fine." Dean made an effort to guide Sam towards the car.

"The police might have some questions for you..."

"I'm sure they do, but I'm sorry, we gotta get moving." Dean turned to face him.

"And thanks for looking out for Sam...he...he's..." Dean stuttered, glanced back at Sam in the passenger seat. He could never say it...because it wasn't true.

"It's no problem," Vinnie saved him with a smile. "He's a good kid. You're a lucky guy."

Arla pushed back her helmet and leant against the fire truck.

She watched the older fireman talking to the handsome one. He sure looked funny all sooty and stupid looking.

Not so cocky now, eh?

She suppressed a smile and undid the straps and lowered her breathing apparatus. The weight was no effort for the six foot two man she had become. Hell, no one had even questioned the new recruit suddenly seconded from a nearby station. How gullible everyone was.

Except for her. There was no one like her.

Why, she just had to think about something and there it was.

Simple.

Awesome.

Cool.

And no one knew she could do such things at the blink of an eye.

And no one would ever catch her either.

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**Judging from the poor reviews, I'm reckoning on just another chapter to this story. Hope you stay with it. ******


	3. Chapter 3

A tad late, I know. But, you know…RL and all that. Hope it's not too hard to pick this up. Will correct my tardiness in future. Promise.

**Chapter 3**

"Need to pee..!"

Dean closed his eyes to the plea. Barely five miles since the last time and when the hell had Sam drunk so much that he needed to pee like a horse now?

"Pee, Dean!" he pressed down on his crotch, shoulders hunched. Dean sighed. Rush hour traffic in this town wasn't affording him a quick place to stop.

"We're in a town, Sam...you can't just stop at the side of the road anymore."

Sam's face scrunched in his predicament. Dean swung his gaze looking for a diner. Of course, that would mean more snacks. And a drink. He gripped the wheel and signalled a detour from the trail of cars they were a part of.

The diner felt stale and uninviting, but Dean could care less. He mulled over how he'd approach the Witch at the gas station. She'd recognise the car, he'd have to park ahead and run the last mile or so. He'd have to memorise his incantations – rusty was the operative word as far as those were concerned, mostly due to Sam being the keeper of the incantations in that freaky hold-all brain of his. He'd need to research which one to use. Something to trap her with would be good. Then he could bargain.

He pushed the door open and jammed a head inside, "Sam?" Just in time to see Sam with his mouth under the tap in the sink.

"What the hell...Sam, get out here now!" a forced whisper. He rolled his eyes. A waitress standing nearby tugged a smile at her lips. Dean nodded and pressed a smile back.

"Kids, huh?" She said warmly.

The door opened and Sam appeared. A sleeve across his face. A resounding burp to the world. The waitress' smile disappeared.

Sam pointed towards the hot food plate and a fresh basket of donuts.

"Donuts."

"They're bad donuts." Dean pulled at his sleeve.

"I have a donut?"

"We'll get better ones somewhere else...come on."

"'M thirsty..."

"No, you're not."

Suddenly petulant, Sam pulled back his arm. His frown almost matched his bottom lip in intensity.

"Don' wanna go back in the car..."

"Sam –"

"Want to stay..." He hesitated in the foyer. Customers and waitresses snaked around them. Dean swallowed back a groan.

Right at that moment - if all the world could stand still for just one second while Dean Winchester punched his little brother's lights out – he was certain he'd feel a whole lot better.

He could remember Sam pulling this one a few times back in the day. How easy it had been for Dad to just scoop him up in his arm and deposit him into the back seat of the Impala. After that, he'd given up on the foot stomping episodes.

"Sam, we can't stay here, we have to go. Like, now." Dean pressed at the door, hoping his brother would follow him.

Sam huffed a reply. Dug a toe into the welcome rug. Not for moving.

Dean curled his lip.

"Hey, Sam." A voice like honey it was so sweet.

Sam's eyes clamped onto the sugar laden donut in a paper serviette being waved in front of his face.

"I'll give you this donut if you get back in the car with your...your..."

"- Brother." Dean added smoothly.

"...your brother," the waitress added.

Sam nodded and reached out for it, but the waitress was cute, and smart. She walked him through the door Dean was holding for him and out to the car before she let him grab it. Dean swung the passenger door open and watched him get in, donut firmly in gob.

Dean winked back at the smiling waitress. Two thumbs up for the genius in the apron.

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Dean squinted out at the dying sun, low on the horizon and rubbed a tired hand across his brow.

He looked over at Sam, sugar granules still on his tee shirt, hair askew, a magazine on his lap, his finger tracing the outline of an overproduced model's pristine, perfect face.

"Promise me, Sammy."

Dean nagged the inside of his lip. A new habit he'd adopted in times of stress where extreme tact was necessary. Subconsciously, he lifted his foot off the gas. The gas station was just over the horizon and short of handcuffing Sam to the door handle, he had to secure some sort of a promise.

"I know you can do it. You stay in the car, till I get back. And...and if I don't come back, you call Uncle Bobby. Okay?"

No answer.

"Sam –"

"Ok-aaay," he snarked, suddenly rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

Dean turned away to focus on what would soon be the dim lighted gas station.

Of course, this wasn't the best time to attack. Just before dawn was everyone's vulnerable time. But, the thought of coaxing Sam out of bed at 4am, or worse, locking him inside some random motel seemed beyond possible, given his fragile temper today. Probably over tired. Probably bored. Should've bought a toy for him to play with. Or an iPod...

No. Instead, he'd catch that Witch and force her to change back her spell...or whatever she did too Sam.

Dean pulled in a fortifying breath and slowed down to park off road. Not too far away that the car would look abandoned to passing drivers…but far enough, that it appeared like a driver taking a nap. He reached for the door handle.

"No!" Sam's hand snaked out and grabbed Dean's jacket.

"What?"

"I don't wanna stay here...myself..." Eyebrows knitted together, a crack to his voice and eyes filling up. Dean swallowed.

"Sam. This is serious." he fought to keep his voice firm. If he didn't get this job done, Sam would be doomed to a life of pitying stares and an inability to function. There was no time for him to grow up again. There was no place for a four year old in the hunting world. They were too far away from anyone that could look after Sam and all things going to plan, the Witch was only a few yards away from eating her own damned spell.

Dean placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder.

"You did it before, didn't you? 'Cos if you're not here when I get back...well, I don't know what I'll do. " Dean maintained eye contact. "Dude, I really, really need you to do this for me."

Sam's chest heaved under his sugar coated tee.

"Sam?"

"Okay," A sad little whisper.

Dean tooled up from the trunk, patted the door and flipped a 'thumbs up' sign to Sam in the dim light the sunset was now offering.

Sam's pale, worried face peered back at him. No smile returned.

Out in the scrubland, Dean ran up to the hump of tree and rubble that would serve as a look out before he made his approach. He should have taken pictures. Of Sam. Sam playing with the cat in Uncle Fester's shorts. Sam's drawing of the fat cat. Sam smushing a donut into his face. Man, he was gonna live on the beer Sam would buy him just to shut him up, once this was all over.

Then they'd rip up some miles and gank the Rugaru that was spreading it's nasty all over that little sleepy mid western town he and Sam were trying to save before…all of this crazy pre-school shit happened.

Dean threw himself down onto the hillock. He crawled forward to view the sweep of the road he'd already driven down once before. An ideal spot to reccy the gas station.

Dean blinked.

There was no gas station.

His heart sunk into his stomach.

There was no gas station.

Just dirt, and scrub…an old truck tire and…no gas station.

Nothing.

**To be continued**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Six months later…

Apple leaves, apple bark and the sweet, almost sickly smell of over ripe apples assailed his senses.

A lazy afternoon sun soothed his neck and shoulders as he sat on a branch.

Sam looked up at him from another branch of the same tree – skinned knees underneath his cargo shorts, a rip in his tee shirt. He sprung a wide smile down at the apple he was holding, before biting into it with gusto. Four year olds did everything with gusto, Dean decided.

God, he was bored.

Bored with telling stories. Bored with hearing stories. Bored with babysitting. The mind numbing endlessness that is Nickelodeon. Bored with repeating himself, repeating words, the retelling of times and details about what they'll do next.

Just…bored.

Of course, it had all gotten worse since he'd stopped hunting.

Had to. Sam just couldn't handle the midnight stake outs.

He had no patience, no tolerance and the concentration span of a…well, a four year old. He didn't know how to lie, how to work through a problem, or negotiate any kind of confrontation…and more worrying for Dean, was the fact that he had no idea about the monsters they were both supposed to be hunting. There was no day care for a 6ft 4 inch four year old and God only knows what the Social Services would do if they discovered their living arrangements.

"Woo-wolf."

"Werewolf, " Dean corrected. He looked at Sam studying the old book on the desk Dean was sitting at that night. Dean hadn't been looking for lore on Werewolves…he was looking for information on witches. But Sam had hijacked his study time…as usual.

Sam picked up a green pen, aimed it for a messy touch down before Dean managed to swipe it away from him. Another library book defacement avoided.

He suddenly looked up at Dean, stretched out a finger and poked Dean's chin.

"Need a shave," he grinned. Dean nodded. They both did.

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Arla had forgotten all about them.

The cocky, good looking jerk with the male model sleeping in the passenger seat.

The most striking green eyes she had ever seen.

He'd turned her down. Pushed her away and shut her off, probably as he'd done to a thousand women in his life time. And for what…her youth?

Yeah. She'd wiped the smug grin off his chiseled features alright.

And seeing them again peaked her curiosity. She watched the handsome one guide the tall one into the main street store just across the road. 'Tall' walked behind 'Handsome' – biting the nails of one hand, twiddling his own lank hair with the other. Yep. He was still a kid.

Handsome looked tired. Listless even. Probably feeling his age.

If only he knew what bit so hard…

She inhaled a cleansing breath.

"Isn't revenge the sweetest thing, Jackson?"

Jackson, the driver, darted a look into the rear view at the mature, stunningly beautiful woman sitting in his Limousine. Impeccably dressed, she oozed nothing but class and style.

"It sure is, Ma-am," he shot back. A beaming smile to back up his statement.

"I'm stepping out for a moment," she said quietly. Jackson jumped out from behind the wheel to open the door, and tried not to eye this slender, long-legged creature as she stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Be here when I get back," she said firmly, her scent teasing his senses as she wafted away.

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The bookmaker's office stunk of stale smoke and beer breath. Charles, the skinny, pockmarked assistant twisted his mouth on sight of them.

The new guys.

The shorter guy was moody and feckless. He once punched out a boxer for pushing the tall one out of the way of the monitors.

The tall one, wasn't right.

He had a thing for pens. He'd pocket scores of them. He'd stuff them into his jacket pockets like he was five or something.

Pissed off, Charles had once mentioned it to the older guy, and been rewarded with a murderous stare. But, to his credit, he'd mumbled something inaudible which made the tall one empty his pockets at the door, the plastic pens dotting the floor around his feet like candy sticks.

He glanced at his watch. Only thirty minutes to go, and it's Miller time.

He let his fingers slide over the safe key in his trouser pocket. Aadesh, the new boy was punching in the numbers for the night – like he was stabbing pasta with a fork. He hated when he did that.

BAM!

The door shot open, making the patrons flinch and dart in all directions as two hefty men charged the sales counter, shotguns ready.

"Get down! Get down! All you mother fuckers get down on the ground now!"

Aadesh dived forward, his arm outstretched towards the alarm button – but the first Gunman shot him square in the chest, the blood spray splattering Charles' pale blue shirt with blood.

He stared blankly at Aadesh's limp body lying at his feet.

The gunmen swung their guns around the shop – all the customers crouching, lying and cowering on the floor. Somebody whimpered. Another guy threw up. Everyone made themselves as small as possible.

Except the tall one.

The only one standing, he stood wide eyed and stunned, as if he couldn't comprehend such violence.

"On the ground!" the Gunman screamed, the tremble at the end of his shotgun signaling the amount of adrenalin shooting through his veins.

The older guy stood up in front of him, his voice low and calm.

"We're getting down, pal, we're doing it. It's just gonna take a moment, okay." With that, he put his hands on the tall one's face and pulled his gaze towards him. "We have to sit down, Sam. Come on, sit down here with us."

Sam's legs began to bend, as they both sat down beside the others, the older guy putting a protective arm across Sam's knees.

The scene was interrupted by the first Gunman pointing his shotgun at Charles' gut.

"The safe keys. Now!"

In his haste, Charles fumbled to get the keys out of his pocket, only to see them slip from his outstretched hand and fall, almost in slow motion, to land noisily on the floor. Charles and the gunman stared down at them.

"Hey, Biff," the gunman shot over his shoulder to his partner. "We got a live one here."

"Hey, no…I…I didn't mean –" But it was too late. THWACK! The gun jammed painfully into Charles' abdomen, immediately doubling him over and putting him on his knees.

The gunman snatched up the keys and forded the sales counter with ease, leaving Charles heaving on the floor.

"The man…he hit the man, Dean," Sam exclaimed, much to everyone's amazement.

Biff swung the gun around towards the two guys at the end of the line.

His mouth curled into a sneer.

"Hey, Dean…" A sing-song retort, designed to aggravate. "What's wrong with your boyfriend?"

Dean merely blinked his response.

The gun jabbed the air.

"Asked you a question, fuckhead. "

"Fuckhead," Sam echoed. Dean gritted his teeth and squeezed his brother's knee, his gaze locked onto the gunman's face.

"He's my brother. And there's…nothing wrong with him."

Biff eyed Sam for a beat.

"He stupid?"

"Stoo-pid," Sam mimicked quietly.

"Well, he's not the one holding up the bookies," Dean replied. Down the line, someone gasped.

Further back, Charles felt recovered enough to stand up. He looked back at the first gunman, energetically filling a bagl with the day's takings.

"You!" Biff barked, pointing at Charles. "Get your skinny ass down beside Idiot Boy here." Charles hobbled over obediently, and slid down the wall beside Sam.

Bloodshot eyes surveyed the line of customers. Two old men, one tattooed guy in his 20's with his tattooed girlfriend, Sam, Dean and Charles at the end.

Biff's eyes rested on the female's curvy figure a little longer than everyone else.

Sam strained to see what he was looking at until Dean pulled him back.

"Sit still for me," he whispered.

"We're nearly done," the first Gunman yelled from the back shop. "You checked the street?"

Biff's knees cracked as he stood up and approached the window. He split the blinds and squinted down each side of the street. He checked his watch. Threw back a worried glance…

"He there?" the first gunman asked as he rounded the sales counter. They both strained to see outside.

"Yeah, he's here…" Biff almost squeaked. His partner wasn't convinced.

"Where the hell is he?"

Dean drew in a calming sigh. Leaned his head closer to Charles'.

"Your back door open?" he whispered. The question jolted Charles out of the scene he was being forced to endure.

Charles shook his head. "It's always locked," he replied.

Shit. The dude called Dean was actually going to try something..?

"He should be here…NOW!" the Gunman roared, throwing the bagl over one shoulder.

"He'll make it, he will. He'd never let us down, I know it!" Biff placated.

"Stupid, stupid choice for a getaway driver," his partner whined, beads of sweat beginning to form in the fug of the afternoon.

"Stoo-pid," Sam echoed.

"Shut up, Sam. This is serious," Dean hissed, pressing his elbow into his little brother's chest.

"You call him," the Gunman screamed, " you call him, and you get the lazy little fucker back here!"

Biff was already on his cell.

His partner's eyes widened at the sight of a cop car sliding past the shop front.

"Shit!" he muttered. He swung his gaze back to the line up on the floor. Veins popping, eyes staring – this guy was on the edge.

"Okay, every one of you mothers in the back shop – move it!" he yelled. Charles flinched at the command, but duly stood up to lead the way.

Charles stopped to let the others pass him. He knew the size of the floor space back there. No way seven people were getting in there without a fight.

"Down on the floor!" the Gunman barked at them. Charles squeezed himself into the tight space – the heat unbearable, he looked up at a wide-eyed Sam.

"No," Sam halted. Dean looked past him, licked his lips.

"Get into the back shop!" the Gunman growled through gritted teeth, neck muscles pulsing, fingers twitching.

"Don't want to…" Sam shot Dean a worried look.

"Dude, just sit beside the man, it'll be fine," Dean said quietly but Sam pulled his arm back.

"Nooo!" his voice wavered.

The Gunman's face suddenly twisted – he raised his gun – the butt aimed at Sam's head. Dean shot him a sideways glance before launching his elbow straight into the thug's ribs.

Someone screamed as he wheezed and recoiled at the force Dean had hit him. Dean grabbed the shotgun and brought the muzzle up hard under the Gunman's chin – his head shot back and he landed with a dull thud on the carpet.

"Get down, Sam!" Dean yelled, his eyes searching for Biff by the window.

Instead, Sam stumbled around the limp body.

"Hey!" Biff raised his gun – so did Dean.

Charles covered his ears.

BAAMM!

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 **

Sam was crying.

Dean couldn't see him…but he could sure as hell hear him.

It was a tired kid's cry. He was at the 'catching his breath with a sob' stage, which meant he'd been crying hard and had somehow gotten over the moment.

Dad would catch him, because right now Dean…Dean didn't feel quite right.

His hand hurt too. A bad case of pins and needles, and if he could just lower his arm, it would right itself, he knew it.

"Fabby!"

Dean flinched at the sudden roar near his ear. "Fabby, he's…Dean's waking up! Fabby, look, see!"

The sudden movement Sam was making confirmed the fact that he was somehow attached to Dean – because it hurt like hell every time he did it.

"Fabby!" Sam almost hoarse with excitement.

"Shhhh," someone soothed. Footsteps on floorboards. "Don't be yellin' near him," a soft voice said.

But Sam was way past excited. "See, see. He's…he's…"

A sudden silence fell around him then. Permission to open his eyes in peace perhaps. Dean concentrated on lifting his eyelids.

Sam's face. Dark and blurred.

Hair long and lank. An eight o'clock shadow.

Should've shaved him before they went out, Dean told himself, because leaning over him like that made him look like Jesus.

"Dean," he sighed. He kneaded Dean's right hand in his own…hence the pins and needles.

Then – another head loomed into view. A thin, pinched face of a boy, no more than 18, or 19 perhaps. Kind eyes, but clouded by something…illness perhaps.

"Hey, dude. How you feelin'?" The boy asked quietly.

Dean blinked.

He opened his mouth to speak – but Sam's face suddenly fell, his eyebrows knitted together and he dropped his head onto Dean's shoulder, and gripped his arm in an awkward hug that made Dean groan with the weight of him.

"Missed you, Dean," he mumbled. "…and the man banged the gun at you…"

The man. The gun.

Dean suddenly flashed back to the bookies.

The hold up.

"…and you wouldn't get up…and I was scared…and Fabby, he came – "

"Sam, hey…give the guy a break, he's just come to," the kid broke in, a good natured chuckle to his voice. Sam sat up – dragged a sleeve across his mouth and smiled down at his brother.

"See, Fabby. Told you…"

Dean shifted his gaze towards Fabby.

"Hi, Dean. I'm Fabiano…," a delicate nod towards Sam, "…I'm not too keen on the Fabby part but...hey."

Dean stared at the boy for the longest time. The constant eye contact starting to unnerve him, somewhat.

"Uh…you probably don't remember, but you took a bullet along the side of your…" He gestured towards the hunter's head.

Dean lifted a shaky hand up towards a thick bandage over his right ear. "They shot me?" He rasped.

"Erm…well, I wasn't really there, I just happened to be passing when I saw Sam trying to carry you across the street."

Sam nodded at the memory. His fingers picked at a loose thread on the blanket covering Dean as he listened.

Dean remained still. Little excerpts of the hold up were news reeling through his mind. Biff and the gunman arguing at the window – the little back shop. After that though…

"Who are you?"

Fabiano's face turned serious. He swallowed before answering.

"Fab-"

"No, I mean really…who are you?"

"I…I don't understand…"

His mind worked overtime, thoughts crashing into one another as he tried to articulate them.

"I think you're her…I think… If it's you, look I…I don't know why…"

Sam's eyes darted from Fabiano to Dean, then back again. The sudden tension in the room scaring him.

" Just tell me…tell me what you did to him...!"

Fabiano was already backing off.

"Look, man, I'm me…I'm just a guy – and you've been out for hours and, and you're probably, you know…" Fabiano gestures a 'mixed up' sign towards his own head.

"Sam, don't trust him…I don't think he's who he says he is…"

"Dean?"

Sam moved to stand up, but Dean held tight onto his hand, stopping him. Fabiano raised his palms in defeat – backed quietly out of the room. The constant hum inside Dean's brain seemed to ratchet up in volume. Dean struggled to follow Fabiono's or the Witch's retreat.

"Dean?" Sam's high pitched, worried little voice pierced feebly through the deafening noise.

He had to stay awake, because she or he…could do anything to Sam. Anything…and God knows what he'd wake up to next…

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Then there was music.

Later…a brushing noise. Like someone sweeping leaves, or grit from a floor.

Then laughter. A snigger, that progressed onto high pitched giggling – like a child might do…

THUD!

Dean's eyes snapped open.

THUD! Then a peel of laughter.

THUD! THUD!

The room looked derelict. An old apartment, probably in an old building judging by the height of the ceiling, with once admired wallpaper now peeling from the damp that crept the walls. No carpet. Nothing homely. No furniture, except the bed Dean lay on and a garden chair, saved from the outside elements.

THUD! More giggling.

Dean moved to sit up. His head felt heavy; the imagined turban he sported probably adding to the weight. A moment's perch on the edge of the bed let him see the cold light of poverty on higher ground. His bare feet on floorboards.

THUD! THUD! Another burst of laughter.

He held his head as he stood up. Like it might fall off. He padded towards the noise.

An empty hallway. Holes through the plaster walls, beer cans and paper. Dean held his breath.

THUD!

He rounded a doorway, then ducked back when he caught sight of Fabiano sitting lazily in an old armchair. Whatever he was looking at made him smile.

THUD!

"Whoa! Did you see that one…?" Sam squealed.

Dean edged closer and looked up.

Dotted all over the peeling and cracked ceiling, were lumps of…wet toilet paper. Some of it was already drying. Other lumps dripped down onto the floor.

THUD!

Another lump joined them.

"Dean," Fabiano shifted his position. Stood up. Ready.

Sam strained to see him.

"Dean! Dean, look what I can do!" he said, pointing upwards. A smile as wide as a mile.

Sam launched another messy lump which hit its mark with a satisfying SPLATT!

Fabiano's eyes darted warily between the brothers. He pointed towards the armchair.

"Here…take a seat, man…"

Dean stared at the chair and wasn't entirely sure he'd make it. Not about to admit it though, he leaned against the door frame instead. As if he knew, Sam wiped his hands on his jeans and approached Dean, took his arm and guided him firmly towards the chair.

"Fabby's chair," he announced as Dean bent awkwardly into it.

This room was different. In one corner was a little pile of…stuff. Not trash or accumulated rubbish from years of squatters. Familiar stuff. A picture frame, with someone in it. A little box. A couple of books. A notebook. A sweater, folded and clean looking. A rolled up pair of socks.

Fabiano drifted towards the pile, as if Dean could destroy it just by looking.

"How…how you feeling now?" he asked quietly.

"Fuzzy. But…better," Dean became aware of Sam sitting on the floor and leaning on his legs. Looking down, there was a toy car being propelled up one side of a floorboard. Just like Sam used to do when he was…

"Look, I woke up weird last time," Dean croaked. "I thought you were… "

What was the point?

If it was her, she wasn't going to admit it. If it wasn't, this Fabiano kid might think Dean was cracked and too dumb to look after Sam, so…what was the point?

"…never mind." He said instead. Fabiano's features softened a little. He licked his lips and nodded, as if to himself.

"Uh…I'm gonna head out to get something to eat for us…you guys just…chill or somethin'," Fabiano patted his pockets, pulled out a battered dollar or two.

Dean frowned. Dug into his own jeans pocket, where he found his own wad of notes. The kid hadn't even frisked them for cash.

"Here, take this," he offered, avoiding eye contact lest he should spook him again.

Fabiano gently approached and took the bills.

"I won't be long," he mumbled. "You'll stay with Dean, right Sam?" he yelled behind him.

"Yep," Sam replied cheerfully, the little car suffering a catastrophic head on collision with the leg of the chair. But Fabiano was already gone.

The silence was a welcome to Dean. He watched Sam study the contours of the wooden floor with the plastic car wheels.

"How's it been with this Fab-iano guy, Sam?"

Sam didn't even raise his eyes when he spoke. "He's fun," a little smile to back up his statement. Then a frown. "He…he came when you were dead. This is his house," he said plainly.

"I wasn't dead," Dean corrected. Sam looked up at him then. Sad eyes.

"You were dead. And then…then the lady came and looked at you…"

Dean tried not to react, but his heart stepped up a beat.

"What lady?"

"A nice lady. Real pretty, with sparkles on her hands," Sam pointed at his own fingers.

"She made your head better, but you wouldn't walk…and then Fabby came and helped us."

Dean leaned nearer. It was her. Witches could probably do stuff like that. Kill people, resurrect them…

"And the lady…did she say anything to you?"

Sam spun the wheels on the car – the rattling noise amusing him.

"Yep," Sam frowned as he tried to remember. " She said I was cute. What's cute?"

"Never mind, did she say anything else?"

Sam scrunched up his face.

"She said, you didn't…the teaching… lesson…you…"

"I hadn't learned my lesson..?" Dean prompted to which Sam nodded vigorously.

Dean inhaled a calming breath. "That's what the bitch said?"

He could feel the anger rising up from his neck to his face. Bad enough she was ruining their already shitty lives, but she was taking the time to taunt them with it too. Lesson? What fucking lesson? That he should pick up under age chicks more often? That he should spend more at the next Seven Eleven he hits?

Sam's sudden dependence on him had crippled their chances of hunting, of any kind of a life in fact. At least Dad could leave his kids with people…Dean didn't even have that option with Sam.

He'd catch that bitch, and kill her good. And soon too.

He cleared his throat. "Uh…did she say anything else, Sam?" Nonchalant…like it didn't matter.

"She said I was so cute…that we could stay this…like this…the same. For always, she said."

With a smile, Sam slammed the car down onto the floor boards – fired it across the room where it jammed up against the peeling skirting board.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The flash of flame and spark spewed up from the cast iron bowl. Dean's mouth gently moved, the incantation a mere whisper. And if anyone knew him, they'd hear the desperation in his voice.

"Dean..?"

A further dash of ground bone, a cursory flick of Sweet William. There was always a moment with these things. He could never describe it…never even tried. It was such a ludicrous activity, summoning something…supernatural. There was always that point somewhere between the blood letting and the latin verse where you suddenly asked yourself…'What the HELL am I doing?'

And that's usually when it happened.

That thing.

That feeling you got when, that thing you actually wanted to happen, was starting to happen.

"Dean?'

Dean spoke faster. The flame shot higher – illuminating the torn plaster board and outdated paintwork, circa 1940's Dean had guessed. He glanced up at the containment hex up on the ceiling. A silent prayer that it would work.

"D…Dean!"

Dean could see him in the corner of his eye. He shot out a restraining hand towards Sam. If he'd stay there, and stay still, this could still work.

Sam's eyes were the size of hub caps. The blanket he dragged behind him was already soiled by the grime off the floorboards. He hovered, then flinched at the sudden froth of blue spark, the pungent smell of manganate almost making their eyes water.

"Fire, it's on fire..!"

"I know, Sam. Shut up!" Dean could feel it. It was happening. Not ideal with Sam squealing like a girl in the background, but the kid would never stay in his damn bed when you needed him to.

Suddenly, a cold breath passed his brow. The flame withered and sunk down to a few burning embers. The room darkened again – nothing but an eerie light streaked through a cracked window. A firm wind continued to move the shadows on the wall.

Dean blinked in the darkness. His shoulders slumped.

It was gone. Whatever it was…was gone. All the ingredients, used up.

Burnt through. Useless. Impotent.

Sam snapped on the overhead light bulb. Scrunched up his face.

"Eww, smell."

Dean could feel the burn. It spread up from his neck into his face.

He bent to lift the bowl and threw it with a grunt - straight through the wall into the next room – a puff of plaster dust accompanying the dead man's thud it made on the other side.

"Sam! You get your ass back to bed…RIGHT NOW, or so help me..!" he roared.

He didn't look.

He didn't have to. Sam had already backed off. Already felt the anger, the frustration radiating off his older brother. The soft thump of his socked feet was the only sound he made and then the squeak of the old farmstead bed as he'd no doubt burrowed his way into the musty old mattress.

Dean drew in a weary breath.

Another happy night in with the family then.

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He squinted into the sunset.

A sodium glow that used to warm his heart and make him think of good times when he was young and…innocent. Now, it only made him wonder whether Ol' Bob Jackson's house was on fire. Exactly when, he wondered, did he become so cynical.

Dean had sounded beat.

Something to do with Sam, he'd said. Hell, it was always to do with Sam. The kid was Dean's life's work.

He smoothed a hand over the leather bound book he'd gotten from Frankie Bartholemew. Terrible hunter, great historian. Bobby hoped Dean would appreciate the bookmarks he'd made for him. Was never good to be tangled up in Witch crap.

When the low growl of the Impala had reached his ears – he'd made his way to the front porch and stood, hands in pockets.

Dean had exited first. Unfolded his lean frame from the confines of his beloved, but road-dusty motor.

No smile, no fuss. No eye contact either.

"Hey.." Was all he'd said. He looked like shit. Unshaven, his hair disheveled. The sight of him forced an air of uneasiness over Bobby, and it wasn't until he'd turned slightly that Bobby noticed the scar running through Dean's hair just above his right ear.

Bobby remembered straining to see Sam who was still sitting in the passenger seat. He'd looked fine.

He remembered what he'd said to Dean. "What's up with tinkerbell?" It was the kind of comment you kind of regretted about ten minutes after you'd said it.

The sound of soft footsteps brought him out of his thoughts. A sharp intake of breath was all he could do as he turned to see Sam approaching – a long sleeved shirt, no pants, chocolate on his face, on his hands, a chocolate smear down one sleeve, down one knee. A smile as wide as a mile.

Bobby accepted the torn candy wrapper Sam held out to him.

"Yummers..!" The kid said. Then, his face suddenly changed – he dipped a hand into his shirt pocket to reveal a half melted piece of candy which he thrust under Bobby's chin. "Kept you some," he breathed.

Bobby looked down at the fluff covered specimen.

"Er…thanks, son."

"Sshhh!" Sam wagged a finger at him. "Dean's sleeping."

Bobby darted a glance at Dean lying on the sofa bed. Arms folded, jaw tensed. He wasn't sleeping.

"Hey, Sam…why don'tcha go put some pants on…and play out in the yard a while." The last time Bobby had said something like that, Sam had been…about 4yrs old. The kid nodded and went to find his jeans. Bobby watched him skip back through the house – his giant frame filling the doorway, shirt tail flapping.

When he was gone, Dean opened his eyes and made contact with the old hunter.

"Jesus, Dean. Breaks my heart to see him…like this," he said softly.

Dean huffed a little breath and dragged an exhausted hand down his stubbled chin.

"Bitch got us good, Bobby. Doesn't matter what I try, I can't ever seem to catch up with her," he croaked.

"And you're sure she's a witch?"

Dean considered the question for a beat.

"I thought I was. But…" he trailed off.

Bobby opened the old library book. "And you think she's buzzed you a few times since?"

Dean nodded silently.

"So, when you first met her…did you…did you give her anything?"

Dean's eyes snapped over towards him. "Like what?"

"If she's a witch, and she's gonna hex you, she needs something from you. A souvenir. A gift. An exchange of bodily fluids..?"

Dean hardly flinched. "Already thought of that. She got nothing from me except some back chat. I'm a grown up Bobby, I can see past the end of my dick now."

Bobby smiled gently at the rebuff. Whatever this curse was, it was a cruel fate on a man like Dean Winchester. He'd already spent most of his childhood raising Sam, keeping him safe, holding him close. And now he faced the prospect of having to do it all again. No wonder he could hardly raise a hair to fight back.

"Well if you're sure," he pressed.

"I'm sure," Dean huffed back before he lifted himself up and swung his legs around with a sigh.

"Well then…it ain't no witch we're hunting." A faint giggle drifted in from the yard. Something new Sam had discovered, no doubt. "Does Sam ever ask for his Daddy?"

"All the time," softer, with compassion. "I miss him, Bobby."

"Who? Your Dad?"

"I miss Sam. Whatever she did…she might as well have killed him, because it's gonna be another twenty years before I get him back."

Dean lifted heavy eyes before adding, "The only other thing I thought about was…"

Bobby waited. Dean was a born hunter. Tenacious, determined and totally dedicated to saving innocent lives. His years of experience and extensive knowledge rivaled the best Bobby had ever met. It was always a good day when Dean Winchester was on the case. It stung to see him so defeated and worn.

"…I thought it might've been…" he didn't even want to say it.

"A trickster?" Bobby suggested, with an even heavier heart.

Another silent nod.

Bobby's demeanor fell at the prospect. A trickster. A demi God with a capital A for arrogance. Can and would do anything they damn well liked. How could they even…

"Hey…," Dean nodded towards the window. "Can you see him?"

Bobby glanced out into the yard.

Outside, the fading light descended with a biting wind.

Dean and Bobby traced the boundary Sam had been told he was limited to.

No footsteps leading away from the yard – no sign of the little big guy on the horizon either.

"She's got him, Bobby," Dean said plainly.

Bobby let the statement rest in the wind for a beat. Might not have been what he wanted to hear, but he was thinking it too.

"SAM!" Dean called, his chest barreling with the force of shouting. "SAM!"

And if anyone knew him, they'd hear the growing desperation in his voice…

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 **

Bare feet.

Not something you see every day.

Of course, that wasn't the first thing that drew his attention to the guy.

It was more the way he ran down the lines of rush hour traffic sitting stagnantly waiting for the lights to change. The way he'd approached all the black cars. Always the black ones…

The way the rain bounced off the hoods and trunks and yet the guy wore nothing but a long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans…and bare feet. The way he'd flinched and cringed when bemused, angry, scared drivers blasted their horns at him, as they slid by his shivering, junkie-looking frame.

Bedraggled and confused.

Now, two months later, Officer Steven Banks holds out a piece of donut towards him.

They think his name is Stan…or Sam.

Steven prefers Sam…so that's what he calls him – but no one really knows.

He won't speak, he hardly eats. He didn't appear to come down from anything, and there were no telling tracks on his arms or groin to suggest substance abuse. No tattoos, no name on the back of his pants. No credit cards. No cell.

A few tests later and psychologists rated his mental age at around 5 or 6. No sign of head injury, no surgery scars. No evidence of having been mugged or abused. A slight southern accent…but then they only had about ten words to work from…

Sam shakes his head at the donut half and rounds his shoulders even more. Instead, Fiona one of the day attenders, slides by and swipes the tid bit from Steven's hand.

"Hey!" Steven mutters as she sashays out of reach, a mischievous giggle escaping her throat.

Sam would never do that. Doesn't appear to have a greedy side. He waits his turn to get on the bus when they go out for trips, he accepts everything with a gentle grasp and refuses with nothing more than a slight shake of his head.

Steven's time is up, signaled by Sam getting up and heading towards the fence to look down the road. That's all he does. No interaction with the other residents.

He just stands and waits.

Studies the busy junction at the end of the road. As if he's waiting for someone. Or something…

A Day Center. That's where they took him in the end.

Prison would've been a rather cruel alternative considering his…learning difficulties. This guy Sam, or Stan, or…whatever, could be someone's son, nephew, cousin on brother. Or…he could be totally alone in the world, having made his break from whatever Care in the Community programme he was trapped in. Kind of hard to believe there's no one out there looking for him. Somewhere…

And all the while, he's here.

Steven follows his gaze down to the maze of traffic at the far off junction.

"Who are you waiting for, Sam?" Steven asks.

He's asked the same question every time he's visited the guy and it doesn't matter how he phrases it, he just gets the same melancholy look from Sam in return. No words. Just an overwhelming sadness etched on a pinched and worried face.

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There she was.

The bloom of her hood shining like a welcome home beacon under the nervous street light – the only one working in the entire road it seemed.

He'd run towards her but he can barely walk now. He glanced back at the tangled jumble of forestry behind him, and pocketed his gun. No need to frighten the natives now he'd made it back to civilization. He popped the trunk and raked around for a blanket. Somewhat stiff and bloodied from the last time – he grimaced at the pain it caused to open the drivers door and throw the blanket in. May as well save the upholstery – if Sam doesn't get her after him then the lucky schlep that does won't have to replace the front seat.

He eased down into the seat with a definite squelch and a wave of nausea made him rest his head back for a beat. It would pass. It always does.

A Rottweiler. That's the made up assailant already forming in his mind. Something rabid and strong enough to scrape claws through his jacket and jeans and bruise him up real good.

The ER Nurse didn't believe him.

He didn't care.

Eventually her persistent questioning made him grit a less than gentle reply through his teeth.

"Lady, just sew up my butt cheek, would you?" He said, half turning from the trolley he was lying on.

"Sir, if it was just your butt I'd be on my break right now. But, you've got yourself some serious gouges down your left side, across your butt down to the top of your knee," she shot back, as she snapped off her gloves. "You need plastics for this mess."

He didn't wait for the plastic surgeon.

She agreed to sew up the deeper ones and pushed the antibiotics into his pocket before he left.

"Where you headed?" she asked, almost as an afterthought.

"Looking for my brother." He stopped to make eye contact for a beat, pulled out his cell to show her a photo. Sam about two years ago, leaning on the Impala looking elsewhere, otherwise he would've flipped a finger to spoil the image. A good likeness, Dean always thought.

She studied it for a beat.

"You lost him?" she quipped. "Or did he leave?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly lost the will. His eyes dipped back to the image. She obviously didn't recognize him and so what was the point.

"You tried the homeless unit down at Crosbie yet?" Another afterthought. "You know, if he's the type to go to these places."

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The office was stifling.

The old AC unit chugged relentlessly in the background but should've been put out to scrap around the mid 90's.

Dean watched a bead of sweat slip down the social worker's collar bone, heading straight for her cleavage. She pressed a thumb and index finger onto the diamond stud in her right earlobe and blinked massive eyelashes at Dean's cell photo.

"Nope. Can't say I've ever seen him."

Neither had Thomas, nor Clara the center manager.

Sensing his weariness, Janey flicked her eyes over his dark suit and tie. The FBI were rarely interested in the homeless and the disappeared. In fact, in the ten years she'd had this center under her wing, she'd never known one to come calling before.

"I'm assuming there's a connection to the state. Was he born here?" she asked.

"Last seen here," Dean returned smartly. "He's a Kansas boy…according to our files."

"What did he do for you to be so interested?"

He looked up at her without lifting his face as if scanning her for trustworthiness and integrity. She maintained her gaze.

"Our database was down when I tried back at the office this morning…you wouldn't be able to run through a few aliases for me…would you?"

She pursed her lips.

"You might recognize the names," he flashed a smile. Not one of his winning ones…just enough enamel to lighten the mood and make it sound like he wasn't that bothered.

After three months of relentless searching, summoning and praying (yes, praying) Dean WAS that bothered. Three months of calling and texting every damned hunter they knew. Every hunter Bobby knew. Three months of searching and researching every theory, blog and internet site even remotely connected to strange disappearances, unnatural events associated with young women between the ages of 16 and 20. There weren't any.

"Aren't you the diligent one," she said flatly.

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"What do you mean by gone..?"

Steven glanced around the manager's office. Two suits, two supervisors, and two assistants stared back at him and his partner. None of them had a 'good news' look on their faces, and their confused glances unnerved him already.

"Look, we don't know how it happened, we've been searching all morning, but Sam was down by the wire fence like he always is – "

"It was a girl...I saw her with him.." The skinny guy interrupted.

"Just a moment, Rowland," the Manager cut him off, an embarrassed smile easing over his face. "It's not like you think, officer…"

His partner shook his head before waiting for Steven to make eye contact.

"…the gates were locked," the Manager continued. "Christ knows my boss is on her way already, we can all sit down and go over everything with a fine tooth. "

"But I saw her," Rowland stepped forward. "Sam never talks to anyone, and he was talking to a girl through the – "

"- Now Rowland, just hold on a minute."

Steven's partner was already ushering half the group through to the next office. Divide and separate. It was always the best way to go when interviewing cases like this. That left Rowland and two of the supervisors for him.

Steven bit the inside of his mouth. This wasn't the first time the center had needed to admit to a runaway over the years. Hell, there had even been the odd accusation of abuse and neglect but things had changed since the latest management sweep out. Happier staff meant happier residents. No one had objected to Steven appearing after his shift to see Sam. No one even questioned why he'd want to. And then they call the department to file a miss-per. Oh, Sam could walk. But that was about all he could do. If he had spent the last three months casing the joint for his getaway, well, even Steven hadn't noticed that.

Steven nodded towards Rowland who simply walked out into the corridor, keen to tell him what he'd seen. Not as keen as Steven was to hear it.

"'S'cuse me," a confident, but firm voice sounded, halting Steven at the doorway. Everyone turned to look back at the source.

A suit.

FBI type.

Piercing green eyes that looked like they never missed much of anything.

He flipped his ID pass out and held it up for Steven to see. Glanced at Rowland and the two supervisors.

"Agent Young from Northside," he said. "Uh…have I come at a bad time..?"

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 **

Someone was touching him.

Tracing his face. Along his eyebrow and around his eyes. Brushing over his eyelashes. Then a light, smooth sweep down his nose.

Then the finger clumsily jammed into a corner of his mouth, forcing an involuntary smile that would make the bed shake with a silent giggle. After all, Dean was sleeping.

He buried his head further into the pillow, which gained him a moment of peace. Until the finger began to trace the edge of his right ear…

He opened an eye.

In the half light, Sam's 26yr old face, partly obscured by the next pillow, hair a wild mash of tangle and lank repose – hazel eyes concentrating on following the line of Dean's ear. Still a child. But, here.

Dean exhaled. Eyes wide open now.

"Sam?" he propped himself up on an elbow. "How…where have you been?" his voice still sleep-gravelled. He rasped out a coughing fit – so ferocious it made him squint with the pain it caused, and when it was over…

The pillow next to him was empty. The bed covers on that side of the bed were unmoved.

Sam wasn't there.

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Something was annoying her.

The dog.

The God damned dog.

She'd read somewhere…in some old magazine, in some past decade, of an operation that would take away a dog's ability to bark. She'd thought it cruel and unnecessary at the time she'd read it. After all, it was a dog's primary source of communication. But now, when that stupid mutt was a barking, barking, barking. Well…

Bark, bark, bark!

She stared up at the huge chandeliers for a beat. The way the morning light struck through the fine cut glass sent sliver of light onto the faded wall papered walls. She thought about how good it would be to just roll her old bones over and snuggle down for another hour worth of sleep, but then…a cold shiver drifted over her neck and spine.

Bark, bark, bark!

Like last time.

Bark, bark, bark.!

Downstairs, she followed the noise. Past a huge golden Bhudda, the 'shoosh-shoosh' of her slippers barely audible with the din the dog was making. The house felt warm and muggy – and she didn't quite know why she'd pulled her gown tighter around her as she approached the yard.

Bark, bark, bark! Incessant, and utterly annoying.

She grabbed the yard broom with one hand, and the handle to the door with the other, her eyes already flicking over the desolate yard space that surrounded her ramshackle little house.

"Benito!" she yelled. "You stupida dog! Why you always make me awake with your idiot…"

She swallowed back the intended swear word, and flinched at the sight before her.

A man. On the ground, beside the fence. Curled into a ball, as if protecting his head.

Bare feet. His heels dirt stained. A filthy head of hair obscuring his face.

And despite the noise the dog was making, he wasn't moving. At all.

A sudden glance towards the yard gates made her recoil, the grip on the broom whitening her knuckles.

The gates were still locked. From the inside.

"No," she whispered. "Not again.."

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Dean watched the cell vibrate on the scratch-worn table before reaching out to stop its inevitable fall off the edge. His leg hurt like a bitch at the way he had to stretch towards it, but the caller ID made him focus.

"Hello."

"Any word?" Steven's now familiar tone.

"Shouldn't that be my line?"

Steven's good natured snort assured Dean he'd taken the jibe in the right vein. He'd liked the guy immediately. He'd been eternally grateful that Steve had been the one to pick Sam up off that busy highway the way he'd described it. But he was a cop. A cop seemingly interested in Sam, for a reason that Dean couldn't quite figure out and didn't want to offend by asking him exactly why.

"You still here?" Here being the town Sam went missing from the unit. This was the fourth day since he'd disappeared, again…and Dean wasn't for moving on yet.

"Yes."

"Good, 'cos I got a couple more colleagues on the west side on the look out for us. In further news, I'm angling to shave a few hours off a case this afternoon…if you got time, we could meet up and do some scouting?"

Dean pursed his lips. Guilt. This guy somehow felt responsible for Sam, and feels guilty he disappeared on his shift. Which was either incredibly kind and caring – or overcompensating for something. What's more, guilt was more Dean's bag. After all, Sam was Dean's brother – he should've been keeping an eye on him. Sam was nothing to Steven.

Maybe he wasn't a cop. Dean closed his eyes and pushed away the perpetual doubt that haunted him since Sam disappeared. That fucking witch was so going to get it…when, he eventually found her.

"Sure. I'll stand us donuts and coffee at the Corn Exchange at what…" Dean glanced at his watch.

"I can be there for three," Steven said.

"See you then."

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Something was stuck in his hair.

"Owwwwww!' he whined. Shoulders hunched, face twisted.

Elena breathed in and placed her hands on his shoulders instead. How many years had it been since she'd last brushed through long hair like this of a morning..? She looked at the brush. Once part of a beautiful set given to her for her wedding - it's lacquer was now tarnished and worn. The grooming session could wait. She watched him turn his face up towards her. It almost broke her heart.

A grown man with a child's mind.

Again.

She'd done it again.

She smoothed back his hair and attempted a smile.

"You like a hot chocolate?" Elena asked him.

He searched her face, and then nodded shyly. A tug at her dressing gown and she approached the stove to get the pan.

She glanced back at him as he gingerly extended a hand towards Benito.

"Stupid'a dog," she announced, more to herself than the man.

"Stoo-pid" the man mimicked.

He could've been anyone. A father, a husband, a working man trying to make his way in life. And so handsome. They were always handsome. A man like that had to have somebody looking for him. Missing him. Worrying. Needing him maybe…

The milk swirled lazily around the pan and Elena hummed a tune to herself. The act of making hot chocolate brought back warm memories of the house that used to burst with family and noise. An Italian home should never be without children.

The man stood up and gazed up at the collection of photographs dotting the wall over the sofa.

The first one she'd gotten, she'd framed and placed in the middle of the wall. But the others which had followed – hadn't made her smile like the first one had. No. The others were different. Wild and fanciful. Scary and beyond belief. Boastful even. Elena had always taught her children never to boast.

He didn't catch it at first. Some of them never did. An idle hand rested onto the dog's head as his eyes flicked over the images.

She lowered the heat under the pan. Smoothed her hands down her dressing gown and waited.

"Sparkles…" he said suddenly. Quietly.

She wandered over to stand beside him. The different faces from the wall beamed back at them.

"Which one, Bambino?" She never tried to sound too eager for the answer, but it was hard.

This time, it was the one on the right that was pointed out. The feline figure of a mature blonde, leaning on the edge of a gleaming new car. Obviously her favorite, Elena surmised. And why not? An expensive, clean cut suit, six inch leather stiletoes…diamonds on her fingers….

"Sparkles," he said again, pointing towards the rings on her hands.

He never noticed the way Elena's face hardened at this information, nor heard the heavy sigh she made.

"Arla," she corrected curtly. "Her name is Arla. And she's a very, very bad girl."

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"Noooooo!" he roared. Fists clenched, tears streaming. "It's not true. None of it's true.." he choked out…his voice constricted with frustration and fear.

Steven and Dean remained motionless on the other side of the table.

"Then tell us what happened," Dean coaxed.

Dean didn't feel too good. His tie was strangling him, his leg was aching, and beside him, Steven was beside him noisily chewing gum with his mouth open.

And this guy was beyond broken. A private hire driver, known to be in the vicinity of the Day Center Sam had been in, on the day he'd gone missing. But he'd done more than just drive, apparently.

"This guy is up for murder?" Dean felt suddenly queasy at the implications Steven was hinting at. "Who is he accused of killing?"

"Angela Rome-Liotta-Anderson, well known business entrepreneur and all round bon viveur,"

"What?" Dean frowned as he took the glossy PR photograph Steven had handed him.

"She had money. And Frank Jackson was her driver."

Now that they were both sitting in front of this man, mid 50's, 5ft 4" maybe 100lbs wet, wiry, sinuous features and no hair – he didn't look like he could fight his way out of a paper bag never mind overpower the Amazonian physique of Angela Rome-whatsername.

"Where did you last see Angela?" Steven asked efficiently, ignoring Jackson's sobs. The man sobered for a moment. Then stilled himself.

"It doesn't matter. You'd never believe me. No one believes me." The defeated, listless admission suddenly peaked Dean's interest.

"Mr Jackson – " Steven cut in.

"- Don't Mr Jackson me, boy," a steely gaze. "I ain't no murderer and I ain't mad either, and you ain't gonna make me say those words so you can damn me to hell like all the rest of them wanna do."

Steven's jaws worked faster. Dean turned towards him with an engaging smile.

"Uh…perhaps you could go get us some coffee, Mr Banks."

Steven blinked at the suggestion. Hesitated for a beat, and then rose up obediently.

Once the door closed, the room fell heavy with silence. Dean made his move.

"Okay, Mr Jackson… I'm going to level with you here. I needed my partner to leave the room because I need to hear what happened the last time you saw Angela. And I need to hear it because you were in the same area, on the same day that my brother went missing. " Jackson's eye contact never waivered.

"Sam's in trouble, I know it. And you've been the first real lead I've had in months. Now, I don't care how weird, stupid or unbelievable your account of events are on that day – I just need you to tell me what happened. And I promise, I promise, that whatever you tell me - no one else will hear it from me."

Jackson sat back in his chair. Dean could see him sizing him up. What sounded like a far out lead suddenly had real potential for something truly supernatural. He might've seen him. This little guy sitting in front of him now, could actually be the first clue to getting Sam back.

He had to tell him. He just had to.

"Please, Mr Jackson…please."

TBC


End file.
